Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 9

February 14, 2020 Friday

Standing in the bucket, lifted high up, Melvin Willis, called Willis, maneuvered the connector for the heavy optical fiber wire. The late-afternoon sun lent a shimmer almost blinding if one faced it. Oddly shaped, not quite round and not quite elliptical. The connection was necessary, as the high-speed fibers, thicker and heavier than an old normal telephone wire, had to be properly secured.

Broadband finally edged its way into rural areas. Two presidents had promised it. Nothing, but now Firefly, in cooperation with Central Virginia Electrical Cooperative, took on the task.

Heavy equipment sat by the road, tipped a bit inward as the roads, narrow, were not banked like city roads. The estimate that this would be finished by March was proving too optimistic. The territory alone would give people fits: ravines, swift-running creeks, larger feeders to the great Virginia rivers…in this case, the James ultimately and the actual foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. No matter how closely one read the topographical maps or checked with GPS, nothing truly prepared the man in the field for what he would encounter.

In this case it was a small pack of feral pigs. Willis watched as his crewmates ran for the cabs of their trucks. Until pigs could fly he would be safe. Glad of his perch he watched the small far group trot across Old Randolph Road and head into the woods. From the opposite direction a coyote slunk out of the woods…yesterday’s coyote, as Willis and the boys sat between Welsh Harp and Showoff Stables.

The expanse of Showoff Stables impressed even nonhorse people. A center stable, as long as a football field, sat in the middle of a manicured field and a sensible driveway with a big circle for trailers.

The stable, two stories high, sported a wide center aisle with brick laid in a herringbone pattern. The stalls, open to the top, sat under a high catwalk, used to crank open a row of windows along the roofline. In good weather, fresh air flowed easily throughout the structure. Each stall’s outside door, a Dutch door, could also be opened for fresh air. In the exact center of this long building a cross aisle led to the huge indoor arena. One had only to saddle up, walk into the arena in any kind of weather, and work one’s horse or take a lesson.

Behind this structure an equivalently sized outdoor arena, a roof overhead but open otherwise, was another place to work your horse or take a lesson. Around all the large paddocks, three-board fences were white and now without lead in the paint, which meant you needed to paint them about every three years. Two if you were fussy.

Wide walkway between each paddock meant the horses couldn’t reach over and bite another horse. Most of the paddocks contained three or four horses, all of whom got along. Every paddock contained its group of friends. The walkway kept the peace.

Every paddock had a run-shed, which the horses could repair to in bad weather. But horses having an odd sense of weather as well as humor often happily stood out in a driving rain. You never knew why.

Around this, more open pastures met the eye, not yet greening up. Too early, but when spring finally did come the place would glow emerald green. Woods covered the remainder of the two-hundred-acre place, these being filled with trails, and some of these trails had natural jumps.

An office, semidetached, anchored the south side of the large stable. A covered walkway connected it to the stalls, for this way foot traffic could be controlled, keep owners at the stable. The main house could be seen in the distance, large yet simple. The design fit into the board and batten of all the wooden buildings, as did the color scheme, a deep mustard yellow with Charleston green shutters. The outbuildings all had white frames for windows but Charleston green doors, and if shutters, Charleston green.

All the supporting outbuildings echoed this color combination.

This color scheme flowed from generation to generation. Whether it came from England originally no one knew, but it was common in this New World. Hanover Shoe Farms, founded in the late nineteenth century then transformed in the early 1900s, used it for their Standardbred breeding operations.

The yellow was lighter than Showoff Stables.

One could find the colors in Maryland; Upstate New York; Lexington, Kentucky. Wherever there was a large population of horse people, this would occur.

Given that the trees with the exception of evergreens were denuded, the mustard yellow helped one focus. A wheelbarrow next to an equipment shed could easily be seen.

Willis, once the support ellipse was secured, took a moment to admire the setting. Down below, to the side of the outdoor arena, a small building, he didn’t know what it was for, had the door open. Squinting, it looked like a person’s gloved hand on the ground. Given the position of the door, he couldn’t be sure what he was seeing.

Intensely watching this hand, he counted to himself. After he reached sixty he thought he’d better hit the walkie-talkie and tell Foster to bring him down.

“Done.”

“Roger.” Foster began to lower the high bucket. Once down, Willis lifted one leg out then the other. “Foster, take a minute. Come with me.”

“Yeah, sure.” The young man with his four-day stubble cut the motor, wrapped his scarf tighter, opened the door, his feet touching the ground as he reached for his gloves in his pockets.

“Got your cellphone?”

Foster replied, “Always have my cellphone. You guys couldn’t work without me.”

“Right.” Willis, now in the middle of the beige pea-gravel road, head down, walked fast.

“Slow down.”

“Speed up. Something’s not right.”

“Willis, everything’s fine. All the markers are set. We won’t have trouble digging the cable from this point. Everybody wants stuff underground. Yeah, well, it doesn’t last but so long. They’ll have to dig it up again.”

“Thirty years from now. Hey, maybe forty. Nobody really knows. Come on, Foster. Quit dragging your ass.”

“I don’t know.”

Willis reached the outdoor arena; moving with purpose, he reached the shed. “Shit.”

Foster, now beside him, looked down at a large man, forties at the most, arm outstretched. This was the hand that Willis had seen. “Jeez.”

The man, lumberjack cap over red hair, eyes to the sky, had been strangled with a Fennell’s lead shank.

Willis tersely ordered Foster, “Call 911.”

Kneeling down, Willis didn’t touch the corpse. It seemed to him the man had not fought for his life. Perhaps his attacker was too experienced.